


Sure, I can check you out

by blackthornxlynch (yesgrantaireisdrunk)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Eventual Drarry, I'll get there I pinky promise, M/M, This is entirely self serving, eventually more people will show up, i have no explanation for this, please enjoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27106960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesgrantaireisdrunk/pseuds/blackthornxlynch
Summary: Charlie's not doing a lot with his life right now. Helping Bill out at the bar, occasionally remembering to do laundry, disappointing his mother, and doing all of his shopping at the 24 hour convenience store near the bar.Cormac's just trying to pass the time, save up some money to buy those limited edition sneakers without using his dad's credit card, and do something that nobody's expecting of him. So, he gets a job at that little convenience store down the road from his apartment.How do you flirt with someone when both of you think the other person is out of your league?
Relationships: Cormac McLaggen/Charlie Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 6





	Sure, I can check you out

Ding. 

The bell over the door chimes as Charlie walks into the store. This time of night-- no, it was day now, wasn’t it? Did four am count as daytime? Whatever, point was, there was nobody else in the store. Well, presumably there was someone working here, but Charlie hadn’t caught sight of them yet. Why was he here? Oh right, shopping. God  _ damn _ but he was tired. Bill had him working from nine to three -  _ at night  _ while Rosier was out with a god damn broken leg. Fuckin’ redneck four-wheeling piece of...actually, Charlie liked Rosier fine when he wasn’t breaking his appendages in stupid vehicular ways and fucking up Charlie’s sleep schedule. It wasn’t that bad, honestly. Couple more days and he’d get the hang of it. Anyway, he could have said no when Bill asked if he was free to work the door at the bar. But what was he gonna do,  _ lie  _ to his brother? Bill knew he didn’t have a damn thing going on. Anyway. Oh right. Shopping. 

Step one: Retrieve basket.

Step two: consider the empty recesses of his fridge. 

Step three: grab frozen things, because this was a convenience store, not a god damn Whole Foods. 

Actually, Charlie had only been in a Whole Foods once, when Dora ran out of organic beets or whatever the fuck and couldn’t leave the house with a hungry, beet-less baby, and Charlie was out anyway, right? So he went to get some free range, grass fed beets, or whatever. 

Step...alright, fuck steps. Charlie grabs a couple more things and steps up to the counter. 

Empty. 

There wasn’t like, a bell or anything. He glances around. Clears his throat. He considers tapping his foot and then decides that is a waste of his energy stores. Should he just leave? 

Wait. A shuffle to his left. Then, the unmistakable sound of canned goods crashing to the floor. He sighs, quietly, and then goes to investigate. 

On aisle four, a boy is lying on the cold linoleum, slightly dented cans of tomatoes scattered around him. The boy glances up at Charlie. 

“This is definitely what I meant to do. This is part of my regular routine. Usually people aren’t here to see me do this bit, but I promise, it’s integral to the process.”

“Uh...sure.” Charlie hooks his thumb back towards the register. “Whenever you’re done with your careful tomato routine, can you check me out?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I can check you out and then finish the tomato routine. They don’t mind. They’re canned. They’ll keep.”

He levers himself up off the ground and follows Charlie to the register. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Charlie’s trying to figure out how old this kid is. Kid didn’t really seem to fit him, upon inspection, because he has broad shoulders and the kind of stubble that implied puberty had reached you a while back. Charlie scrubbed at his own jaw, weirdly jealous. Tomato Boy’s stubble was that carefully artless sort that implied probably his ancestors had been bronzed heroes, or maybe that he was an Abercrombie model in his spare time. Charlie just looked like he’d forgotten to shave that morning. 

He realizes that he’s just staring at this kid. Maybe he should...what? It’s weird, right? To strike up a conversation with the guy who’s scanning your groceries? Like, you aren’t supposed to flirt with the bartender, because they might feel pressured into flirting back, even if they don’t want to, because they’re at work, right? They literally can’t leave. Trapped audience. Surely the grocery boy falls into the same category. 

God, he’s hot, though, isn't he? Probably too young for Charlie though. He really isn’t sure. He’s definitely not a teenager. He’s way too...well, the stubble, really, and the shoulders, right? Still, it's definitely inappropriate to flirt. He’s too tired. His brain isn’t working at optimum capacity. 

Suddenly, there’s a woman standing behind him at the register. He didn’t even hear anyone come in! 

God, was he seriously so engrossed in staring at this kid that he missed the arrival of another person? He needs to sleep. He needs...a drink, maybe, and then some sleep. He wrangles his credit card out of his ancient wallet and sticks it in the machine.

He can’t say anything now, for sure, not with someone here to witness what could be construed as harassment. Oh, god, it would be, wouldn’t it? Harassment, Jesus, he’d have to avoid this store forever, and it’s right between his place and Bill’s bar, and…

Tomato Boy is holding his receipt out towards him. He takes it, he grabs his bags and…

He should say something. Anything.

“Cheers,” he hears himself say. “Good luck with your, uh, tomatoes.”

Tomato Boy cracks a half smile, the world’s most enticing dimple appearing at the left corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah, I’ll uh, give them your warm wishes. They’ll like that,” he says. 

It shouldn’t be hot, Charlie thinks, that this kid is still talking about the tomatoes like they’re sentient. What do you say back to that? Nothing, he guesses. That’s it, right? 

He shoves the receipt into the pocket of his jeans and…

He leaves. 

\------------------------------

Cormac is so, so tired of working at this grocery store. His mother says he needs ‘goals’. His father wants him to go to law school. Cormac would rather die. He just wants to pay rent. Well, Cormac’s parents actually own the whole block he lives on. So, he doesn’t actually pay rent. Or like, his wifi, but he does buy his own groceries! And shoes! 

Anyway, the store’s kind of soul sucking, like, ding, put stuff on shelf. Ding, scan items. Ding, explain to a middle aged woman that you don’t actually sell artisanal cheese, because this is a convenience store. You’re like, half a step away from being a gas station. And a step the other direction from being a dollar store. 

Whatever. 

The schedule is actually okay. He likes it better when it’s nearly deserted. There’s only two of them ever working this weird 10-5 shift at a time, and usually it’s him and Nott. Sometimes it’s the Creevey kid, who’s like,  _ just _ too young to be actually relatable, and so you’ve just gotta stand there and let him wash over you with little facts about like, what it’s like to be a college freshman or how tragic it is to love a sorority girl, or whatever, which, Cormac doesn’t really want to get into that conversation, because he’s got plenty of experience with that already, thanks, and the only thing worse than a sorority girl is a fraternity guy, and that  _ really _ isn’t a conversation he wants to have with Creevy. 

Tonight's just another shift. Nott’s in the back somewhere, supposedly doing inventory but actually probably snoozing on the pallet of instant rice they just got in. Cormac doesn’t really mind. 

Nott actually does have goals, it seems. He’s working this job and going to school for some sciencey thing Cormac’s vague on the details of. So he works this weird shift here with Cormac, and then goes home and takes a like, two hour power nap and gets back up to go to class at like, eight in the damn morning. Rinse, repeat. 

That’s kind of why Cormac doesn’t want goals. Goals seem to make people tired. He’s tired enough already. 

The night is just...crawling. The end of his shift is so close he can  _ taste  _ it. Productivity at this point is...meaningless. He’s just trying to make the time go by a little quicker. All he has to do is pass the 42 minutes before the morning shift people get here, so he tries to actually stack things like he’s supposed to have been doing for the past two hours. 

He’s got this one pallet of canned tomatoes left. If he can just..stack...one more row….he can totally reach that from his step ladder. One more row tall and this pallet will be empty. It’s...actually, maybe a bad idea. He doesn’t consider this until the can he’s just sat up there wobbles alarmingly, and he barely has time to think ‘oh n--’, before he wheels backwards on his step ladder and canned tomatoes rain down around him. 

The floor is  _ cold. _ Also, a can of diced tomatoes caught him on the temple as he went down, and  _ god _ he hopes that doesn't bruise. Nott will laugh at him. And he has breakfast with his mom tomorrow, and if he has a bruise she’ll think he’s fighting again and--. It’s fine. Totally nothing to worry about. Maybe he’ll just lay here for a minute though. Catch his breath. 

Wait, no, shit, he hears footsteps. 

He turns his head to the right and sees god. Maybe he does have a concussion. Maybe this can of tomatoes has ruined him. Maybe he’s dead. This is heaven. This man is  _ beautiful. _ Cormac’s no schlub, he’s confident in his body, but this guy's thighs are so chiseled, Cormac can see every twist of the muscle through his jeans. His biceps are the size of Cormac’s---

“This is definitely what I meant to do,” he hears himself say. “This is part of my regular routine. Usually people aren’t here to see me do this bit, but I promise, it’s integral to the process.”

“Uh...sure.” Muscle god hooks his thumb back towards the register. “Whenever you’re done with your careful tomato routine, can you check me out?”

I am checking you out as we speak, Cormac thinks, but says, “Absolutely. In fact, I can check you out and then finish the tomato routine. They don’t mind. They’re canned. They’ll keep.”

He is an idiot. He is so, so stupid. That was the stupidest joke of all time.

Muscle god sort of cracks the barest hint of the suggestion of the thought of a smile, and does an about face towards the register. Cormac painstakingly levers himself off the ground and follows him. 

He doesn’t stare at his ass the whole time. He  _ doesn’t. _

This guy eats worse than Cormac. Everything here is frozen. Who needs eight frozen one-serving lasagnas? How does he  _ look like that _ if he eats like this? 

Cormac’s trying desperately not to notice the tattoos that wind their way down Muscle god’s arms. He can see the tail of something just under the collar of his t-shirt, he thinks, but-- 

_ Ding. _

He glances over at the door and sees Yoga Lady beelining for the granola bars. God, is it 4:30 already? He’s outta here in like, 28 minutes. He is so, so ready for bed, he just wants to…

Well. Now he just wants to see what Muscle god looks like under that t-shirt. There are two bags of pizza rolls here. How much tomato sauce can one man consume? 

He rings up the last of Muscle god’s frozen meals and obediently taps the buttons in the correct order so that Muscle god can pay with a credit card. 

He realizes he’s been silent basically this whole time. Shouldn't he have...said something? It’s too late now, it would be like, conspicuously awkward now if he tried to start a conversation. He hands Muscle god his receipt. Yoga Lady, ever dependable, is suddenly standing behind the object of Cormac’s affection, granola bar and bottle of water in hand. There’s no time to...what? What would he even say? 

“Cheers,” says Muscle god. “Good luck with your, uh, tomatoes.”

“Yeah, I’ll uh, give them your warm wishes. They’ll like that,” Cormac says. Idiot. You total, absolute plonker, you sound  _ insane _ Cormac, you fool, he thinks. 

Muscle god gives him that barely suggested half a smile again and then walks out the door.


End file.
